Wheel of Fate (16 page)

‘Mistress Napier,' I said with a polite bow. ‘As lovely as ever.'

She flushed. ‘You always did have a cruel tongue, Roger. I'm fully aware that time has not dealt kindly with me. You, on the other hand, appear to be as handsome and certainly more prosperous than heretofore.'

‘Appearances can be deceptive,' I told her. ‘And how is Master Napier faring nowadays?'

She gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Gregory? Oh, he's been in his grave these three years past, praise be!' The thin, carmined lips twisted into a smile. ‘The house in Paternoster Row is all mine now, as is the shop. With a coronation in the offing, I'm expecting to do extremely well in the next month or two.' The sudden pealing of bells from St Paul's and half a dozen other nearby churches drowned out her voice for several moments, but as soon as she was able to make herself heard again, she said, ‘It's dinnertime. Why not come and share mine? There's a stable around the corner where you can take your horse.'

I hesitated for perhaps a second or two, but then agreed. Paternoster Row was near at hand, whereas to ride back to the Arbour would take some time. She smiled, laying long-nailed fingers on my proffered arm.

I had first met Ginèvre Napier eight years earlier while investigating the mysterious disappearance of two children from their home in Totnes, in Devon, and had encountered her again three years later while enquiring into a case of apparent murder by a cousin of the late King Edward's mistress, Jane Shore. I had not much liked her then, nor did I now, but it occurred to me that she might know something about Adrian Jollifant that could be useful.

The parlour of the house in Paternoster Row was much as I remembered it. (In fact I was surprised at just how much I could remember.) The ceiling beams, once aglow with red and gold paint, were faded now and the wall tapestries had lost their pristine freshness. But the armchairs and the table, fashioned from the finest oak, and the corner cupboard, with its opulent display of gold and silver, were still the same, as was the candelabra with its many tinkling filigree pendants. Ginèvre waved me to a chair and told one of the servants to bring dinner as quickly as possible.

‘I don't know about you, but I'm starving,' she murmured, seating herself opposite me. Her foot brushed against one of mine under the table. I conquered the urge to withdraw it and returned her smile, although half-heartedly. She then utterly discomposed me by laughing out loud and saying, ‘All right, Roger, let's dispose of the pretence that you like me and you can tell me exactly why you accepted my invitation to dinner.'

When I had stumbled through a few disclaimers at this devastatingly forthright speech – disclaimers which she neither believed nor wanted – I told her as briefly as possible what I was doing in London, including the reason for my being there in the first place, and finished by asking her what she knew of Adrian Jollifant.

Ginèvre considered this while the maid was serving us with the first course, a shrimp soup flavoured with garlic, and eventually gave her measured response to the question.

‘He's a man with an obsession,' she said, ‘but I imagine a smart young fellow like you has already worked that out for himself. Would he be capable of murdering an entire family in order to satisfy that obsession? Then my answer to that would have to be yes, I think he probably might well be.' She drank some soup, her expression thoughtful. ‘A few years ago,' she went on, ‘when his first wife died unexpectedly, there was a good deal of whispering among the other residents of the Cheap that she had died very opportunely, it being well known that Adrian and a certain sprightly young widow who lived in Muggle Street – Monkswell Street, if you prefer its proper name – were more than nodding acquaintances. There was no proof, mind you, that these rumours were anything more than malicious gossip, but it's true that his mourning was of the briefest. A little more than three months after the first Mistress Jollifant's death, the second was queening it around the shop and decking herself out in the best wares that it had to offer.' The thin, painted lips sneered. ‘I've never seen a woman so loaded down with necklaces and other ornaments. A silly creature with no taste; no idea of when enough is enough.'

I finished my soup and leant back in my chair. ‘That was delicious,' I complimented her. ‘You have an excellent cook. But returning to Master Jollifant, I was told that he is not the owner of the shop; that it belongs to his father who has retired.'

Ginèvre nodded, laying down her spoon and leaving at least half the soup in the bowl, too affectedly ladylike to drink it all.

‘Yes,' she agreed, ‘but that's another cause for talk. The old man is rarely, if ever, seen. It is presumed that he lives on the top floor of the house, but no one knows for certain. At one time, he was a popular and well-known figure around Cheapside, even after he retired.' She rang a little silver bell and the maidservant reappeared to clear the dirty dishes before bringing in the next course, braised veal in a white wine sauce. (If this had originally been intended as a meal for one, it was difficult to understand why my hostess was not as fat as a sow instead of the near emaciated figure she presented.) ‘But of late, there has been no sighting of him, not even at the top floor window overlooking the street.'

I tucked into my veal with relish. ‘So, what do people think has happened to the old man?' I asked.

Ginèvre shrugged. ‘They don't know. There's gossip, of course, but then there always is. Some fools whisper that he's been done away with, but what would be the point of that? If Adrian wants to be master of the shop, he needs it to be known that his father is dead. There could be no point in doing things in secret.'

I agreed. ‘And what do you think?'

She laughed. ‘Me? Oh, I mind my own business.'

‘But you must have an opinion,' I pressed her.

‘I think the explanation is probably much simpler. I think the old man is ill, confined to bed. Adrian Jollifant has never encouraged his neighbours to probe into his affairs, which he keeps to himself – with one exception!'

‘The fact that he believes he has a right to the Arbour?'

‘Yes. This house, which you tell me now belongs to these relatives of your wife, that is his abiding grievance. Obsession is perhaps the better word, as I said. He is not rational on the subject. He speaks as though it has somehow been stolen from him instead of being the present owners' by legal purchase.'

I broke a hunk off the fine white loaf placed in the middle of the table and began mopping up my gravy. ‘And this is a man,' I said thickly without waiting to empty my mouth, ‘whom his neighbours believe might have killed his first wife? I agree with you about his father. To do away with him and not produce a body would be to defeat his object. Nevertheless, people seem to believe Master Jollifant capable of murder.'

Ginèvre rang the bell again. This time, when the dirty plates had been removed, wine and dishes of nuts, raisins and last autumn's little sweet apples were placed before us.

‘I suppose you could say that almost anyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances,' she answered judiciously, pouring wine into two fine glass goblets. (The goldsmith's shop was certainly thriving as well as it had done in her late husband's day. But then, I had always thought her a shrewd woman with a clever head on her shoulders.) ‘But if you want my own opinion, I would say yes, I think Adrian Jollifant more capable of it than most.'

‘Because of this obsession of his?'

‘Oh, certainly. Anyone with such an overwhelming belief that something belongs to him by rights and who feels himself robbed of those rights, is irrational enough to believe he is justified in using any means at his disposal to achieve his ends.'

I drank my wine in silence, mulling over what Ginèvre had said. It made sense. But whether it meant that the silversmith actually had resorted to killing members of the Godslove family one by one was a different matter. Why would he bother murdering Reynold Makepeace, who had no interest in the Arbour and had never lived there? But for that one fact, I might have been inclined to believe that I had found my killer. In the circumstances, however, I could not be sure and I decided that it was time for me to pay another visit to Bucklersbury to see if Julian Makepeace had returned from his visit to Southampton.

As soon as I decently could, therefore, I thanked Ginèvre for an excellent dinner and excused myself on the grounds of having a commission to execute for Adela.

‘And the present from Master Jollifant's shop?' she queried with a lift of her plucked eyebrows, nodding towards the little box which I had placed on the table beside me. ‘Something to keep your wife sweet and allay her suspicions still further?' She smiled a fraction too widely, and I noticed for the first time that one of her front lower teeth was missing while another was rotten and black. ‘Does she have real cause for her misgivings, Roger? During the two brief periods of our former acquaintance, I always felt that you might prove to be an unreliable husband. And, believe me, I know what I'm talking about having been married to Gregory.'

I felt the colour flood my face and silently cursed this telltale sign. But I bluffed it out. I was not admitting Ginèvre Napier any further into my confidence. I had been a fool to tell her as much as I had done already.

‘Adela and I love one another,' I said flatly, rising to my feet, but perfectly aware, as my hostess was herself, that this was no answer to her question.

She accepted it, however, as all she was likely to get and rang the bell yet again for the maid to bring me my hat. But I wasn't to escape that easily, and when I had put the hat on, she came to stand close to me, pretending to adjust it. I could smell the wine on her breath and felt the slight pressure of her thighs against mine. But thankfully she did not attract me, and I could see by the suddenly hostile glint in her eyes that she knew it.

‘Well, if I can be of any further service to you, my dear,' she said coldly, stepping back and extending her hand, ‘please don't hesitate to call on me, either here or at the shop.' She was not an easy woman to discourage. ‘Promise!'

I promised, gallantly kissing her proffered hand, but I gave a long sigh of relief once I stood outside in Paternoster Row and heard her door close behind me. I did not like Ginèvre Napier, but neither could I regret the meeting. I had learned some valuable information concerning one of my suspects that I probably could not have obtained any other way.

I realized that I was feeling rather dizzy: my illness had taken its toll and I was not yet as fit as I thought myself. Nevertheless, I refused to give in to such weakness. I resolutely straightened my shoulders, fetched Old Diggory, now watered and fed at my expense, made my way back along Cheapside as far as the Great Conduit and turned into Bucklersbury. Mid-morning trading was at its height, carts rattling over the cobbles, street traders bawling their wares, blue-coated apprentices trying – sometimes physically – to entice passers-by into their masters' shops, women, baskets on their arms, pausing to chat with friends and acquaintances. It was London at its busiest, and yet, this particular noonday, there was something subdued about everyone's demeanour. Conversation was earnest and there were no sudden bursts of laughter, no light-hearted banter, no cheery waving and shouting from one side of the street to the other. The news from Northampton was plainly the main topic of discussion and people's looks were grave, even bewildered, as they tried to make sense of it.

I knocked on the door of Julian Makepeace's shop, having once more tied up the horse, and it was answered by the same buxom young creature as before. This time, however, she appeared wider awake and there was a sparkle in her eyes that had not been there previously. I guessed I was in luck: the apothecary had returned.

‘Oh, it's you,' she smiled. ‘I wondered if you'd come back. I've told the master about you. Wait there and I'll go and tell him you're here.'

After a few moments' delay, the rustle of an apothecary's gown heralded Julian Makepeace's arrival and the man himself stood before me. I should have known him anywhere for Reynold's brother. Indeed, although I judged him a year or so younger, he was the identical stocky build, had the same bright hazel eyes and thinning brown hair and exuded a similar warmth and friendliness that reached out to embrace all the world.

‘Master Chapman?' He held out his hand. ‘Naomi told me you had called and that your visit had something to do with my brother's death.' He frowned, his face clouding over. ‘Or did she misunderstand?' He smiled tenderly. ‘A sweet soul, but not the brightest of girls.'

‘No,' I said. ‘She understood me well enough. May I come in and explain?'

‘Yes, of course you may.' He held the door open for me to pass inside. ‘Pardon me saying so, but you don't look too well.' He ushered me through the shop and into a private parlour behind, indicating a chair. ‘Sit there, sir, while I prepare you a reviving draught.' And he hurried away on his mission of mercy, returning after a short space of time with a glass of some green liquid in his hand. ‘Drink this,' he ordered. ‘It should refresh you.'

It tasted strongly of mint, a flavour I am not partial to, but it did the trick. Within a few moments I was able to sit up straight and hand back the glass with a smile.

‘A remarkable concoction,' I said. ‘What was in it? Apart, of course, from mint?'

Julian Makepeace laughed. ‘Come, Master Chapman! You don't expect a man to give away all his trade secrets, do you? Now, what did you want to see me about? Something to do with my brother's death, I gather. But that was two years ago and there was no secret about it. A taproom brawl at the Voyager, and my poor Reynold was unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of it.'